


February Flash Fics

by lettalady



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-26 23:39:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 16,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17755706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: As a writing challenge for the month of February: short flashes of stories (fics, ficlets, drabbles, snippets, snatchets, or whatever else you want to call them)





	1. Day 1 - red

There’s a thumping & bumping noise progressing through the house, announcing the simple fact that you are no longer home alone. You twist over onto your side, burying your face almost entirely into your pillow. What is the need for air, really? 

It’s easy enough to track the noises through the house. The thump there would be a satchel clunking down on the coffee table. That bump and muffled series of words - drawing a short-lived smile out of you - must be the loveseat jumping into his path, because we all know inanimate objects have it out for him (at least in this house). Then, of course, is the approaching sound of footfall - the wooden floors not disguising his path in the slightest. 

He’s headed to find you.

“Knock, knock.” 

The gentle rap of knuckles on wood doesn’t need to accompany his entrance, nor does he really need to further announce himself, but he does. That’s just who he is. You groan in response, cause that’s just who you are. At least, that’s who you are right now. It’s the headache’s fault. 

“I’ve got something for you.” 

This headache is making you miserable. Unless it’s something meant to provide relief, you’re not interested. Saying as much would mean speaking, which would mean stringing several words together and voicing them, which you know from experience does you no favors in your current condition. 

You groan again, instead, though you brace to move and see. 

“Roses are red…” 

At the start of this well practiced poem you release your muscles, relaxing back into the mattress, and your pillows again. Sweet words are not helpful right now. He can take that gooey poem and kind manner right back out of the bedroom.

Except he doesn’t. 

“Violets are blue…” 

He’s come closer, you can tell, even though he’s taking care not to speak too loudly. After the sonorous approach its almost amusing. It’s the same man, just more care being taken. What could have had him so intent on being in the same room? 

Your answer comes as you feel the bed shift with his weight. Not the full shift of him joining you in the bed - you’re too close to the edge he’s approaching from for that - but the movement paired with the leaning of one’s weight against the side of the structure. 

“If you’ll have me - I’d like to marry you.” 

It’s a ploy to get you out of the dark sanctuary that is currently the bedroom. A smile on your lips, you don’t quite roll to face him, and don’t open your eyes - up until you hear the creak and small pop of a jewelry box. That forces you to open your eyes with a startled jerk of your head, all to seek him out, and the little maroon box he holds in his hands. 

Of all the times and all the places. 


	2. Day 2 - mini-golf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A flash of something from the world of [I'll Always Want] More

“I  _thought_ I said no peeking.” 

Paige quickly closes her eyes again, though she quirks an eyebrow at Tom - or at least in his general direction, “Why can’t I see that we’re going to your place?” 

Tom hems, “It was meant to be a surprise.” 

“It stopped being a surprise the moment you shushed Roderick halfway through hellos.” She gives Tom’s hand a warning squeeze. It’s less a scolding than playful banter, but he  _will_ owe Roderick an apology. 

“Alright, fine.” Tom caves, grinning all the more as Paige opens her eyes. “The big reveal is inside, anyway.” 

That just makes her raise her other eyebrow at him as well. 

Shaking his head, he laughs, “Not  _that_ kind of big reveal…” Although - now that the thought was out there. No, he forces himself to focus on the presentation he was about to give. They can satisfy endless urges later. That part of his home, at least, had been spared. 

Paige is left momentarily speechless after he opens the door, only to manage to flit out a laugh of disbelief after he ushers her over the threshold. Tom’s spartan home has been transformed. “What -” she blinks, trying to take it all in, “what happened? What did you do?” 

Tom watches her closely, relishing the bright, stunned - and stunning - smile that only grows as she looks around. “Laurel said you used to love playing mini-golf with your cousins. I thought - what with the snow limiting options - that maybe I should bring the course to you.” 


	3. Day 3 - champagne

He smiles at the happy couple as they hold their drinks aloft. The smattering of friends and family surrounding the pair erupt in a fresh round of cheers and laughter. Such a happy occasion. The long engagement is finally over, they are married, at long last. 

Outwardly, he is cheerful, a pleasant smile plastered on his face. There’s always a quick chortle ready to go for every joke that flies around the room. This is a celebration. Drinks all around! 

But behind that joyous mask lies a man in pain. 

He hides his lips with his glass of champagne, tipping it first towards the happy couple - towards the beautiful woman, now  _wife_  of his best friend. “I wish,” he whispers into the chilled glass, words catching in his throat, “that I knew you earlier.” 


	4. Day 4 - night

It was yet another fourteen hour day at work, but you’re home now so everything is fine. You’re exhausted, but finally in something more comfortable and not wanting to move the dozen or more paces to get something more to eat, and hydrate - or get another something stronger - but you’re home and that’s what matters. 

Then comes the knock at your door. Three quick raps that spoil your plans to be a lump on the couch for the next twenty-some-odd hours. Muttering darkly under your breath you heave yourself up, just making it to the door as another sharp set of knocks assure you that you haven’t moved in vain. Someone, whomever it is, is still out there - still waiting for you to answer. 

Mood clearly written on your face you jerk the door open, with the intention of letting this late night caller have it, only to find a familiar face on your doorstep. It’s one of your neighbors, looking a little mussed, and dressed in lounge wear not dissimilar to yours. “Wha-” the bite of your first word gets softened from your confusion - and curiosity. “Hi. Can I help you?” 

“Ehrm.” 

He looks just as uncomfortable with the situation as you feel. Dark t-shirt, plaid pajama pants… and no shoes. Not visibly injured, so far as you can tell. But he’s here, on your doorstep. Late. What gives? 

“So,” he clears his throat, “ I might have locked myself out. I was, well, can I use your phone? Mine’s… inside.” He splays out his empty hands, and your eyes drop from there down to settle just below his hips. Ah - pajama pants. No pockets. 


	5. Day 5 - devotion

We’d been texting back and forth pretty steadily since I left the office, talking about anything, and nothing in particular. We touched on the workday - long, how he’d snagged our favorite booth at the pub - easily done because the waitstaff loved him, the commute I’d inevitably suffer from the office to aforementioned pub - terrible because of the time of day and the usual congestion, and the video someone had sent him but he was refusing to send me as he wanted to watch it together - presumably  _not_  simply because he was being a tease, but to be able to watch my reaction to said video. 

Though he’d already claimed a beer, something he swore I’d have to try, he wasn’t letting himself get distracted by his surroundings. Dutifully, he was responding to my every message near-on immediately, all to keep me entertained and/or distracted. 

Downside to his devotion was that he’d failed to notice my arrival some 15 minutes earlier. Now it’s become a game to see just how long it will take him to look up and see me standing several tables away. 


	6. Day 6 - best impressions

His last minute tizzy over the right type of wine to bring enabled you to dress for the party in peace. His mum invited the pair of you over for holiday festivities and you wanted to look the part. You had the perfect thing, too: a dress he’d given you a few years prior.

You’re slipping on the shoes when you hear a car door slam. Perfect timing. He’s back from running his last minute errands - you suspect not  _just_  picking up wine, but a few gifts as well. He’d loaded the car up earlier. You’re the last piece of the puzzle. 

He has his back to you as you approach. When he does turn he does a double take, and then pulls a face, “Um. Honey? You’re wearing  _that_  to dinner?” 

You’re not quite sure you like his tone, giving him a half-scowl in return. “… Yes. Why.” 

“It’s. Um.” 

Festive. You know. More fun to see what word he will settle on. “Um?” You echo, one eyebrow raising in an unasked question, daring him to put his foot in his mouth. 

“It’s just that,” he’s squirming now, migrating around the car uneasily, “You usually just wear it around the house? I meant it as - as a joke when I got it for you.” 

“I know.” 

His mouth hangs open for a moment, though he recovers quickly, “You. Know?” 

You give him a curt nod, swapping your focus to cast a loving gaze at the bottom of your dress, twisting a bit to make the fabric sway. “I love it. It’s so ugly, it’s cute.” 

“So. Ugly. It’s – cute.” 

Impishly, you offer him a light shrug, “Yep. Kinda like you. Now get in the car.” 


	7. Day 7 - endearing

There’s this way that he frowns when he’s trying to drill words into his brain that makes me fall a little more in love with him every time. Not that I’m stupid enough to tell him. Most days I’m content to remain his friend, content to enjoy the close proximity that that particular moniker allows without doing anything foolish to jeopardize my standing. Most days. 

Then there are some days when I open my mouth and thoughts spill out that have no right to be aired. I swear that’s how we became friends in the first place. After being paired for a project I glanced over at the hunk ambling towards me and muttered - at a decibel I thought no one could hear - ‘ _fuck me, we’ll be the giraffe and the hamster’._

Of course he heard the comment, and his warm smile melted into a heartfelt chuckle that zipped straight into my chest and stayed there. From then on, in addition to the various assignments we tackled for the sake of education, my mission as I chose to accept it was to make him laugh at every opportunity. It’s great watching him double over because I’ve laid another horrible pun on him. Don’t get me wrong, I aim for wit. I just usually miss. 

Don’t start swooning over the height difference, either. It’s comical, not endearing. Like a chihuahua befriending a great dane, comical. I’ve never been so grateful for an intro class, though. Never before, and never since. 

While our shared classes have ended, the friendship has not. Study sessions are great for torturing myse- I mean, focusing on the things that will be coming up on our respective exams. I’ll blame sleep deprivation and chemistry - sadly just the formulas making me cross-eyed in my textbooks and not the other kind, for what came out of my mouth that night. It certainly wasn’t a moment of bravery. 

“Why aren’t we together?” 

He emits a harrumph and tosses his head just enough to make his fringe flop out of his eyes for a moment, even though in the next second it’s settling into place over his eyelashes again.  Out comes that smile that makes making myself cross-eyed over formulas worthwhile. “Your poor jokes and - as you’ve told me on many occasions - I snore.” 

He thinks I’m messing around, as usual. I act mock affronted, placing my hand over my heart to try to play it off a bit before switching to point at him, “You  _love_  my jokes. And I could invest in earplugs.” 

He raises an eyebrow at me before dropping his gaze back to the book propped on his knees, a smile on his lips. “Hm. Guess you’d better go shopping, then. Let me know if they have bulk rates.” 


	8. Day 8 - grace

You’ve just settled into the corner chair of the recently vacated room when a man storms in, slamming the already half-open door into the bookcases and causing the thingamabobs sitting on the shelves to rattle on their perches. You give a start, your tablet nearly flying from your hands in the process. 

He breezes into the room with all the grace of an angry swan, making just about as much noise. “And another thing, cupcake….!” 

He’s crossed the room with a few long strides, rounding to square off on you, stalling out entirely when he finally focuses on your face. You’re clearly not who he expects to see. 

You blink cautiously up at him, wondering what could have him so agitated. “Uhhh…” 

A bright scarlet flush is creeping up from his collar, splotching across his neck. Anger, either from the argument’s delay, or from the argument itself? Embarrassment over shouting at a stranger? 

He clears his throat, the strong emotions refusing to leave his face. Even as he tries to backtrack through the room he seems to be stubbornly refusing to turn his back to you, “Pardon. For the interruption. That is…” 

He doesn’t manage to explain anything further. In his backward path through the room he has fallen off course, the consequence of which being that the backs of his legs collide with an overly stuffed futon. Before your eyes he tilts backward, windmills, and then tumbles over the footrest to land with a  _WHUMP_  on the floor.


	9. Day 9 - birthday

Those not in the rotation always ask what she’s like when they find out he’s part of her detail. His answer never varies: she’s like any other client, just like any other detail any of them were ever assigned. It wasn’t a reply that ever stopped the envious glances that followed. Or the questions. It was almost something he found amusing. Actually, he  _had_ found it amusing, at first. 

It wasn’t that she was a breeze to protect, far from it. But she was easy to be around, and was stunning in a way that snuck up on you and smacked you between the eyes when you least expected it. 

He should have seen it coming, but it had never been a problem for him before. The professional distance had always come easy for him, and been easy to maintain with the others. There were rules, boundaries never to cross, that should have helped, too. Still, the fact of the matter was that he’d woken up three months into the detail to find that he looked forward to the days he would pick her up in the morning and ferry her across town. That even while he was scanning for assorted threats, he harbored various daydreams about quiet mornings in, reading the paper alongside her, making out grocery lists in prep for shared dinners, movies watched not spent half-watching the goings on of the surrounding theater but seated together at home, or better yet - time spent together in bed.

He’d thought about quietly asking for reassignment, worried that his judgement was growing increasingly impaired, but decided he could soldier through. He’d maintain his distance, remain her bodyguard, and just - exist on the sidelines of her world. 

Today she has been making that decision particularly difficult to live with. It’s not so much her fault, though. It’s just that he’s another year older, and the things he’s lacking in his life seem further highlighted. Her announcement, midday, almost forces him to voice a groan but he catches himself just in time.

She’d been invited out, with friends. It would only extend the day a little longer. She just planned on making an appearance and then coming home. Two, three hours, tops. 

Everyone looks to him to make the call. Final decisions on the plans for the night. Nobody dares offer the fact that he’d probably prefer knocking off earlier, rather than later. That any of them might have plans for the evening. He’d heard whispers in the pre-dawn of the locker room this morning that the team wanted to take him for drinks to celebrate the day. He still hasn’t figured out how to shrug them off. 

His light nod had lit up her face. That, alone, made it worth it. 

But then the day wore on, as time does, and the sun started to set. When she reappeared in the hall, sparkling material of her dress hugging her figure, he simply clenched his jaw and found that spot just over her shoulder that enabled him to keep his mind on track. 

“We should get you there within the hour.” 

The rest of the team was in the car, waiting for them. But that wasn’t her concern. As they boarded the elevator he could feel her eyes on him, and he risks a sideways glance - zeroing in on her ear - to confirm it.

And find her glaring. 

“I know you’ll never tell me what’s going on in that head of yours, or I’d tell you to just spit it out. Clenching your jaw like that can’t be good for your teeth. Your dentist is probably dancing a jig every time you walk in.” 

He inches his eyebrows up in response, slightly startled by her outburst, and can feel his gaze start to pull to allow their eyes to meet, but then he regains himself. None of that. He settles his face into carefully crafted Neutral again, determined to maintain control, and lets his focus slip to the smooth interior of the elevator doors. “It’s nothing.” 

But in his peripheral vision he sees when she shifts her stance, folding her arms over her chest. Is this how the night is going to go? When he could be at home attempting to make and then eat the chocolate-cake-in-a-mug he’d picked up for himself two nights ago?  

She wants to know what’s going on in his head? Fine. “You shouldn’t go out like that.” 

“Excuse me?” 

In hindsight, he should have kept his idiot-mouth shut. He blinks his eyes closed, resigned to his own stupidity, and puffs out a breath through his nose. Too late to rethink his actions, but maybe she’ll drop it… “Never mind.” 

She has, at least, dropped her arms from how they’d been previously crossed. Now she’s twisting in the space beside him, and shaking her head. “No, you. No. What’s wrong with…?”

Crap. She’s going to want to go change, now, and that will only delay the evening further. He turns to her, careful to find that safe space just over her shoulder and to the left of her ear, “I shouldn’t have said anything." 

"No. Don’t do that. Mr. Stoic. Tell me what you meant." 

His gaze slips sideways to meet hers for a second and - what the hell, maybe it’s cause it’s his birthday and if you can’t throw caution out the window on your birthday when can you? - he turns on his heel and jabs at the elevator control panel, bringing the small space to an abrupt halt in its descent. 

With the alarm ringing in the background, alerting any interested parties to the lack of motion, he turns back to her and points at her with his index and middle fingers of his right hand, “You, wearing  _that dress_ , means every man in the room will have their eyes on you. And every woman will be thinking of murder.”

Quick, as always, she fires back a comment as she tilts her head at him, “Is that a compliment?” 

He can’t help but notice the hint of a smile playing on her lips, nor can he keep from returning it. Rueful smile in place against his will, he huffs out a small laugh, “It’s - it’s a statement of fact. You make my life… my  _job_ ,” he amends, “incredibly difficult.” 

Her eyes flit over his features as she presses her lips together. Shit. Now he’s gone and stuck his foot in his mouth. He’s been so careful! Neutral banter was all he’d ever allowed before! 

“If it’s any consolation,” her voice is soft when she parts her lips again, “you make it look easy.” 

“What?” He blinks, trying to recover ground as quick as he can. Cool. Calm. Collected. Where did those portions of his inner self go? And why, absurd as the urge is, does he find himself wanting to cross the small amount of space between them, erase it entirely? That won’t help matters in the slightest. “Easy.” He breathes out the word, half in disbelief. 

“Yea. Juggling everything. Even when I’m making things difficult.” She still hasn’t lightened the strength of her gaze, of her assessment of him. Her eyes dip down now, taking stock of him from his feet up to the tip of his nose, “I always feel safe. With you watching out for me.” 

He can feel himself settle a bit under her gaze. Was that the point of her praise? To allow the night to progress? He gives her a light nod of acknowledgement, forcibly pulling his eyes away from hers, trying to shove his focus back to the safe space just over her shoulder. 

“And there he goes -” she says quietly, “disappearing behind that mask.” 

A small scowl furrows the spot over his nose, just between his eyebrows, as he taps the button to get them in motion again.

It isn’t until they reach the bottom floor that she speaks again, waiting until he’s opened the lobby door for her and their ride is within view. “Happy birthday, by the way.” 

He freezes, only able to lock eyes with her as she draws closer. Just as she passes him by he manages to mutter, hoping the others aren’t reading their lips, “You - who told you?” 

“Nobody _told_ me. I looked it up.” She glances back at him, half turning away from the waiting vehicle, “Why do you think I’m wearing this dress?” 

 


	10. Day 10 - whispers

There they were again, the whispers setting him on edge. Every time he turned there was only darkness, only empty air. 

It could, he reasoned, just be the way the older structure settled coupled with his mind, playing tricks. The advertisement said it was a location full of history, documented as being one of the last original buildings in the area still standing. Why they hadn’t yet gotten it listed in the historic registry he couldn’t fathom. But still, it was what had driven him to rent the place for the duration of his stay. Full of history - and quite possibly full of ghosts… if one believed in that sort of thing. 

Which he didn’t. 

Maybe.

“And what one doesn’t believe in, can’t hurt them.” 

Great. Now he’s talking to himself, or maybe to the house and the noises from within its walls that are making him so jumpy. 

It wasn’t like the listing said:  _The place is haunted! Come get your thrills!_ Surely they aren’t using this as a ploy to try to get people to talk about it on the web. Free advertising from the unwitting. 

He frowns as he finishes drying the dishes used for his late meal, returning the towel to its place hanging from the edge of the sink. He most certainly didn’t believe in ghosts, or spirits, malevolent or otherwise. 

“So there.” He concludes, done with his internal debate and finally satisfied with the state of the kitchen. Any further murmurings or whispers or creaks or groans from the aging structure would be chalked up to drafts through improperly sealed windows, or doors. 

And the soft _thump-bump_ of something landing on the floorboards above, when he’s the only inhabitant of the house? 

Tom blinks, lifting his eyes to fixate on the exposed rafters of the ceiling overhead as goosebumps prickle over his arms. It was just something he’d carelessly tossed onto the bed before coming down to fix dinner… that had finally tipped over the side and landed on the floor… without any outside help. Yay gravity? 

He pulls out his phone, realizing it’s a bit too late to try getting a hold of anyone. First thing tomorrow he’ll see if there’s anyone willing to come bunk for a few days at a time. There’s more than enough space. Just having someone else around would do wonders. 

And if not? Well, there are always places to stay with a little less  _history_ to them. 


	11. Day 11 - comfort

“Bobbie! Babe?” 

Bobbie’s head pops up off your lap, his nose tipping the bottom of your book in his rush to alert you - in case you missed it - to the fact that Tom is home and calling for the pair of you. You purse your lips as you scratch behind the chocolate spaniel’s ears. You rate second behind the dog? But then Bobbie had chosen  _you_ this morning, opting to stay and comfort his other human versus going out for a run with Tom. 

Tom, who is still a little out of breath from his run when he makes his grand entrance after seeking you out. The whole rest of the house to take his sweaty self to and he heads straight for you. And his dog. 

“How’s our girl, bud?” 

The entire loveseat is practically vibrating with Bobbie’s enthusiasm, his love for Tom. The steady wag of his tail that had just about kept rhythm with the clock while Tom was out is now replaced by the quick and sporadic whaps of a happy dog’s. Your canine water bottle will soon abandon you to play with Tom and you’ll have to seek out other methods of comfort to battle your cramps. 

Before you can do much more than look up from your book, mentally marking your place on the page, Tom has crossed the room and relaxes down into a pile of limbs - half on, half off the loveseat. Not much more room on it, after all. You and the pup? Tom certainly won’t fit, too. 

He flops his arms down  _mostly_ next to you, and rests his head atop his forearms grinning as Bobbie moves to snuffle at his ear.  "Uuunrrrfffhhh.“ 

It’s not quite a word. Definitely something you’d categorize as a sound of relief. Maybe it’s just an odd noise, though, in response to a cold nose and the hot pulse of doggy-breath?

"Good run, hon?” You reach over Bobbie, who hasn’t quite left your lap, to pat the side of Tom’s head. It’s a carefully chosen spot, one of the few not-sweaty places that exist on him at the moment. The hair at the back of his neck, in contrast, is curling from perspiration. 

Tom picks his head up to better be able to grin at you, only flicking a sideways glance at the furry chocolate mischief maker vying for his attention. “It was great! And oh - there was a gorgeous retriever playing in the park that you would have loved and—" 

 His eyes are sparkling as he regales you and Bobbie with the tales of his morning run. As sorry as you are for missing the action - a near  _calamity_  a few blocks down when a motorist almost collided with a cyclist! - you just didn’t feel like getting up and running this morning. Your lady parts and the early stages of that time of the month and all that. 

 "Of course,” Tom snuggles a little closer, ignoring the renewed snuffles and tentative licks from Bobbie, instead keeping those blue eyes of his locked on yours as he leans his torso against your legs, “I missed my running partners horribly.” 


	12. Day 12 - solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** READ THIS FIRST ***
> 
> So. Hey. Gonna post a warning before posting the handwritten flash fic today. Decided to go for creeptastic. If you’ve read YOJA all I need to say is: Mi corazon. If you haven’t it might still work cause I tried to keep it in the standalone creeptastic territory. Just need to ask for caution, the darkness in this one isn’t for everyone.

There’s nothing as calming as stepping over the threshold after a long and harrowing day on the streets. It’s an invisible security blanket that wraps around his shoulders, pulling a small smile onto his lips as he closes the door behind him. 

He can still smell her perfume, lingering in the undisturbed air, that she had sprayed on this morning before rushing out to greet the day. She was always in a rush. Always distracted. Always looking forward, never back. He liked that about her. Liked everything about her, to be frank. 

There’s the temptation to twiddle the keys around in his fingers as he wanders deeper into this sanctuary, a habit he’s never been able to break. Determined to enjoy the temporary peace he’s found, he pockets them. The tinkling sound of metal on metal can be saved for later tonight when he can’t sleep.

His smile breaks, pushing into a wider grin when he spies the dirty dishes in the sink. She didn’t quite wash away all the leftovers in her rush to be out the door. So like her. 

Rolling up his shirtsleeves he goes about finishing the task, humming to himself as he pulls the dish washing liquid from beneath the sink, squeezing a small bit onto the sponge she left next to the faucet. Takes a bit to get the water to the right temperature. Maybe he needs to take a look at the water heater next time he’s able? 

It only takes him a few minutes to clean the plates and utensils, and rinse out the mug she used for her morning coffee. Once everything’s into the rack to dry he gives himself an assured nod. These small things he can do for her bolster him. They remind him that he’s needed in her life. That he’s useful. 

He glances down at his watch, eyes glancing off the bottom of the tattoo he’d gotten in her honor as he checks the time, the very edge of the heart peeking out from beneath the rolled cuff of his sleeve. There wasn’t time enough to take a look at the water heater today, not unless he wanted to be caught greased up and with a wrench in his hand. 

Continuing his progress through the house his fingers start to itch, keen for another task. He could give in and resume twiddling his keys as he walks from room to room, but… no. That was a sign of the near-constant restlessness that he felt. He came here for  _peace_ , for the clarity that came with being so close to her. 

If only he could be  _with_  her. 

“Time to go.” The sound of his voice, though muted as it echoes through the surrounding rooms, wipes away the feeling of longing. He could belong here. He  _does_  belong here. 

Pausing in the doorway to her bedroom, he stares at the half-made bed, fighting the urge to finish making it. The rumpled sheets all but shout to be touched. If he gave in there’s the danger he would lay down, first, just to get lost in her scent.

He won’t allow himself that again, not so soon after the last time. 


	13. Day 13 - snow

The snow crunches beneath his feet, seemingly absorbing the usual sounds of the surrounding city. Each of his steps holds a two-part crunch: the initial impact of his boots, and then the shift of his weight. 

He could have stayed in, hidden away indoors where it was warm. He’s had enough of that, though, since Thanksgiving. In this new year he’s determined not to hide. And he needs time to think, time to breathe. Somehow the brisk air aids him in that endeavor in a way he can’t seem to manage in the house surrounded by his family.  

It’s because - because even though she’s in a different country again, on a different continent entirely at the moment - she’s there. She’s smiling at him in the kitchen, sitting next to him on the sofa, dashing about with the younglings in the backyard… He hates himself for it, because she  _could actually be there doing all of those things._ Except that she’s not. 

He could have insisted. He could have held his ground, could have battled back against the woman determined to go to war with him. He could have just given her the goddamned ring like he planned. Instead he had presented an ultimatum, and when his pride was further wounded? Walked. Turned his back on the woman he loved when he should have stayed to provide support. 

The cold bites at his chapped lips, the one spot still tending to split because he continues to worry at it rather than allow it to heal properly. He’ll be presentable, once more, at least by the end of the month. Presentable just in time to stand in the spotlight, just in time to see her once more. 


	14. Day 14 - love

He’s been standing there staring up at the first big drop in the track for going on half an hour, watching as each car makes its way in the slow ascent to the top before sending ‘the poor souls aboard’ over the edge, ‘screaming all the way’.

“Yes, Tom,” you ever-so-patiently explain, “that’s kind of what people do on roller coasters. That’s the  _point_.” 

That dubious expression hasn’t changed an iota. “Sheer terror?” 

“ _Exhilaration_!”

For the briefest of moments that questioning look is turned on you, only to have it sweep away from you again, back to the track in time to see another carload  of people race down the incline. Of course there’s someone screaming bloody murder as the car does its first loop and then races out of sight. 

You’d planned it out, sugared him up with sweets and things to make him more compliant before asking him to join you on the coaster. In retrospect, maybe letting him gorge himself on theme park food before floating the idea of going on the thrill ride wasn’t the best of plans. 

“We can go back and do whatever ride you want if you just go on this one  _once_  with me.” You sidestep to jostle into his side with yours, “I’ll hold your hand the entire time.” 

This time when he swallows it’s audible. He half-chuckles, shaking his head as he drags his gaze away from the coaster. “And after as well, babe. When you’re leading a nauseous me to the loo.” 

“Pfft.” You roll your eyes at him before motioning off to the left of the ride’s exit. “That’s what trash cans are for. But, c’mon. You’ve never been on it before! You might find it thrilling!” 

“Terrifying, darling. The word you’re looking for is terrifying.” With a heave of his shoulders he holds out his hands, blue eyes sparkling, “I’ll hold the stuff. Go on.” 

But you don’t budge. You have one last card to play. 

“I bet…” 

His eyes narrow immediately. He never could back down from a challenge, a fact he knows you know.

And to sweeten the temptation? 

“I bet you  _a month_ of getting to choose what I wear that you won’t get sick.” 

Calculations are being made. The pros weighed against the cons. You can see the wheels turning as he considers his options. 

“Two months. Just for riding. Once.” He holds up his pointer finger, as though you needed visual cues. “And,” reading your telegraphed acceptance of his terms, he adds another addendum, “weekend no-pants parties.” 

If he thought that was going to be a deal breaker he’s sadly mistaken. You hold out your hand to shake and seal the arrangement. “Deal.” 

After shaking, he pulls your hand to his lips, a strangled smile appearing on his face as you drag him along towards the lockers to stow your things. “You’re damn lucky I love you so much, babe. And I apologize in advance if you’re treated to a second viewing of those tacos we had earlier.” 


	15. Day 15 - silence

He woke with an odd ache in his chest, and the feeling that something was going to happen in the course of the day that he wouldn’t enjoy, not by a long shot. He hoped it would just be the typical things that made him mutter darkly under his breath: his partner abandoning him to do all the processing and paperwork, a surprise departmental review, or all the chocolate once again being gone from the vending machine closest to his desk. 

Somehow, as he blearily rolled from under the sheet to sit on the side of the bed and rub sleep from his eyes, he knew he wouldn’t be that lucky. The day had not started out right, though in every aspect he could pinpoint, except this surety of feeling, this morning was the same as any other. 

His gran, had he called her instead of spending an extra few minutes in the shower with the water scalding his skin, would have told him he was putting too much faith in what probably was remnants of a dream. She’d’ve told him to brush it off and face the day ready to take on whatever the world decided to throw at him. 

Shoulda called her after lunch after he’d dropped that blob of mustard on his pants, another stain to hope to hide in the darkness of the material, and another sobering domestic call came through. Some days just weren’t good days - she would’ve assured him, with the gentle sound of her porch wind-chimes tinkling in the background - and then she would’ve asked him once more when he planned on bringing a girl around for her to coo over.  When he met one worthwhile, would’ve been his answer. 

But he hadn’t called her. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d do  _better_  than call her, even, and go over and see her. They’d sit and talk, and all the while he’d revel in her surety that the world wasn’t as bleak as he saw it to be. She was a wonder of a woman, that way, and could talk him out of nearly every funk. 

If he had been driving rather than David, who had scored a whole ten points lower in defensive driving but whose turn it was because it was the third Friday of the month, maybe then they wouldn’t have watched with increasing concern as the car they were tailing picked up speed, darting through the residential areas with mounting recklessness. Maybe the chase wouldn’t have resulted. They wouldn’t have ended up in a pursuit that took them careening back into the city and calling for backup. 

He wouldn’t have watched, tight lipped, as David attempted to end the chase by clipping the back corner of the beige car. They wouldn’t have watched it lose control and spin wildly across the lanes of oncoming traffic, skidding to a stop in the lot of a petrol station. 

With backup on the way they could have parked and held a safe distance, but a single glance at one another cemented their course of action, and his day. One moment they were in their vehicle, the next they were out - shouting directions to onlookers who had yet to react and orders for the four in the beige car to follow, in an attempt to deescalate the situation.  

Because of the day, because once things start going wrong they keep going wrong, the four in the sedan don’t do the smart thing and listen. They start shooting, which is when  _the crowd_  begins to listen and disperse, seeking shelter wherever they can find it. 

A flash of a blue uniform catches his eye, someone in the petrol station shepherding people towards the back of the store. No gawking at the windows. A fellow first responder? Not armed, clearly, but he’ll take all the help he can get at the moment. He can’t tell his heartbeat from the sirens, so no telling how close their backup is. 

That’s when David jerks and goes down, hard. There’s no way to reach his partner without abandoning the firefight and diving through the interior of their car, and that’s not an option he’s desperate enough to consider. Yet. He just has to hang on till backup arrives on the scene. Just has to keep those four contained.

But. Wait. There’s one… Something whizzes past his ear. Quickly. Count them  _faster_. Two. Three. Where’s the — 

He’s tagged hard enough to spin him 180 degrees before he falls. In his rush to find the fourth man he’d presented himself as a target, an opportunity they hadn’t missed. On his back and reeling, his lungs scream for air but his body refuses to obey. He’d failed. Failed David, himself, the public, his gran… That hurts the worst. The thought that she’s going to have to clean out his place, and suffer through another funeral, though this time without him there to support her. 

He lets out a groan along with the last bit of breath his lungs had to offer, surprising himself with the automatic inhalation of air that occurs right after. It’s not comfortable by any means, but he’s not dead. Not dead, just hit. Hit and damned miserable about it. 

Of course the longer he lays like this on the ground the greater the odds that he’ll wind up the former. 

Right about the time he’s talked himself into reaching a tentative hand up to explore the expanse of his vest he hears someone approach, talking fast in jargon he recognizes. A paramedic. That flash of blue he’d seen in the interior of the petrol station, guiding people towards safety and away from the hot zone. 

She’s off duty, rattling off the status of the scene and the injuries she can see with a practiced air. 

Somehow knows his name? 

On his vest. Right. 

Damn, he blinks his eyes open and swallows a silent prayer. Damn he’s glad she’s here. 


	16. Day 16 - dance

All you wanted was some juice, but when you opened the refrigerator you found that what had drawn you into the kitchen was missing.  _Someone_ had finished off the juice without replacing it with another from the pantry. You could opt for something else, sure – water or something, but juice was what you’d set your mind to. Room temperature will work… so long as you can get into the bottle. 

So far it’s been a struggle. 

You try again, changing your grip on the bottle and bottle top in the hopes that maybe your efforts will be met with reward. Still no movement. The machine that sealed  _this_  bottle in particular did its job, and then some. 

Maybe twisting your body a little this way, and holding your mouth _just so_  will help. Except it doesn’t. The top doesn’t even budge. Are you even loosening it at all?? 

Grumbling, you scrunch up your nose as you glare at the offending bottle. It isn’t even about the juice anymore. It’s about triumph over this stubborn cap. You’re so not above opening the bottle and then putting it in the fridge, just to prove a point. 

Actually, that would be  **TWO POINTS**. (A) That when someone polishes off a bottle they  _replenish_  said type of drink. But also (B) that you can open whatever container you damn well please without asking for assistance. 

“Cause that’s so not happening.” You pucker your mouth in a short lived look of disgust. At this point you just know that you’ve made some sort of progress in loosening the cap and of course if he tried to open it it would open with ease. He’d make  _one of those faces_  that all but asks why you were having trouble. He wouldn’t actually  _ask_. He knows better than to voice such things. 

Placing the bottle on the counter, you point at it, silently commanding it to cooperate before you give it one last go, gripping the cap once more. Holding your breath you twist your wrist, feeling the way the ridges of the cap burn against the palm of your hand. But then —  **SUCCESS**! You feel the damn thing yield against the force you’re applying. 

Thrilled, you stand back and hop in place, performing a quiet little victory dance in the kitchen. 

Then you hear his chuckle. 

Whirling around on your heel you find him standing in the doorway, a wide grin on his face. Your elation doesn’t quite evaporate, but it is quickly overcome with the heat of embarrassment. “How - how long have you been standing there?” 

Did he only just descend the stairs? Only witness that little happy dance of yours? More? Did he hear your grunts of frustration and come to investigate - bearing witness to the way you had to twist your body this way and that to get the bottle open? 

“Oh, longer than you’d probably like.” 


	17. Day 17 - sleep

Another day has left his hands cramped from filling out paperwork. As he walks to his car he flexes his fingers before splaying his hands wide and then rolling his wrists. It helps a little, but not enough. He momentarily considers going to the gym. It’s early enough, yet, that he could zen out while lifting weights, or utilizing the punching bag. Day he’s had? It’s necessary. He could hit the gym and then go home and fall gratefully into bed. 

The thought of going to the gym is tempting, but it also makes his shoulder twinge. It still does that, occasionally. Pulls when he moves just right, or after a strenuous workout. (But was there really any other kind?)

She always scolds him about that. Pushing so hard. Like she’s any less guilty of it. 

Thoughts of her bring a smile to his lips, and as he makes the final approach to his car - hunting in his jacket pocket for his fob - he feels an overwhelming urge to call her. Even goes so far as to get his phone out and then sense stalls him. She just worked a double. She’s probably passed out. More than likely on The Comfiest Sofa in Existence (his title for the monstrosity that takes up roughly half of the floorspace in her studio apartment). 

A press of the button on his fob brings his car to life, the machine ready for action even if he’s slowing down. Tossing his bag in a light arc to land in the passengers seat, he slides behind the wheel with a light  _ooomph_  escaping him. Though the car is idling, ready to begin the journey home, he’s conflicted. Stuck. Double just worked or not he  _has to hear her voice. **HAS TO**  _hear the groggy way she’ll answer the phone. Has to confirm she’s still breathing and making the world a better place just by existing in it. After that - after that he’ll be able to drive home and fall into bed. The rest of the world will still be askew… a wild, dark place, but she’ll still be illuminating his small slice of it. 

“ ‘lo?" 

 He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes, answering her quietly. "Hey." 

"Unf.” She exhales. Inhales. And then sighs, “Time is it?" 

"Early. Late. Just. Was thinking about you. Wanted to hear your voice.” Wanted. Needed. Same thing. And had he meant to admit that? He blinks his eyes open, looking at nothing in particular through the windshield. He hears her yawn, how she tries to stifle it and fails. And the tiny noise she makes as she stretches. His mind wanders, filling in further details. 

“Gotcha.” She exhales another of her  _\- I just woke from the dead and am stretching out all the sores spots_  - noises. “You make it home, yet?” 

Doesn’t he wish. He sits, unfocused in the drivers seat of his car, wishing he didn’t have to navigate the traffic to make it back to his place. Where are those cars of the future? Blink and you’re home, having been driven there by the vehicle itself. “Nuh-uh. In the garage still. Just got out to the car.” 

For a second he thinks she might have fallen asleep on him but then she utters two soft words, “Come over.” 

He should argue against the suggestion but the desire to hear her, to be around her, was exactly what had driven him to make the call in the first place. He’d like nothing better than to accept, to wrap her up in his arms and just  **SLEEP**. 

Frowning, he closes his eyes. He’s exhausted, and she is too. Their schedules made it difficult to always find time to see each other, particularly with the overtime they both work. But he’s got a change of clothes in his bag. No things of his at her place, not yet. But maybe they’re building towards that? 

“My place is closer.” He hears her move again, probably rolling over to try to find that comfortable position she’d abandoned in order to answer the phone when he called. “Bed is already warm, too.” 


	18. Day 18 - challenge

He leisurely picks his way through the rows of students while handing back their midterm papers. Suitably impressive, for the most part. Still were those few holdouts that wanted to try their hardest not to enjoy his class. If they would put just as much effort into the subject matter… 

Art history isn’t for everyone, he knows. He hasn’t yet given up on connecting with them though. He’ll figure it out. They’re only mid-way through the term. So much left to cover.

His determination to, in the least, get everyone enrolled to enjoy  _something_  is what prompted the prompt for the papers, the stack now dwindling in his hands. ‘ _Write about your favorite piece of art_ ’ he’d said, ‘ _or artist._ ’ Anything that had been covered up to that point in the term had been fair game… and then he asked them to contrast that to something covered that they hated. 

Oh some of the responses. He’d smacked his lips, savoring his pinot noir as he read their essays. The absolute certainty that Alex had, that he’d  **hated**  the week that they’d spent on Roman architecture. One of the Kevins had bemoaned the time spent on Cézanne. Rachel and Lauren had both expressed confusion when confronted with Goya though neither went so far as to confirm hatred. He might need to sit with the pair to make sure they’d venture down different paths for the project he was about to throw at the lot of them. 

The paper had been a set up. He wanted to hear their thoughts on what they’d covered in class, yes, but also wanted to present them with a challenge. Granted the idea had  _originally_  been suggested by his wife as she killed the bottle refilling his glass. 

“What has you laughing so hard?” 

Rather than dive into a lengthy explanation he’d flipped through the already graded stack to pluck out a select essay and hand it over. He’d paused grading to watch her read, the way her mouth sometimes moved along with the words. How her cheeks were a pleasantly rosy color already from the wine, and chatter over dinner about their respective days, but now gained more color still as he shared this bit of joy with her. 

He takes another sip from his glass before talking, estimating how much she’s read of the visible page - a rant against Degas. “Were  _we_  so sure of ourselves, then? Was I?” 

She flicks her eyes from the page to laugh, this time  _at_  him. “Oh honey. Were you ever!” 

If he wasn’t holding a glass of red and reclined so comfortably on their faux leather sofa… Come to think of it, maybe they could use a spill as an excuse to invest in a fresh piece of furniture? 

He’s about to launch himself up and catch her in his arms when she speaks again, her eyes having drifted back to the paper in her hands. A softer laugh escapes her, “You know, you could really spark some of them with this…” 

“Hmm?” 

And she had told him.

So, due at the end of the year: something aimed to make them think outside the box, something aimed to challenge… a piece in the style of the piece of art or artist that they claimed to hate, as per their midterm paper. 


	19. Day 19 - strength

Some days they found random moments to send each other quick messages to check in throughout the day. Today wasn’t such a day. 

Guilt tries to take root as he drives to her place after his shift. Standing plans aside, he almost calls to make sure they’re still on for the day. Maybe he’ll get her flowers tomorrow - and see if she wouldn’t mind coming to his place for dinner over ‘the weekend’, which really was two days in the middle of the week for the way her rotations were scheduled this time. 

It has him so distracted that he’s standing on her welcome mat before he’s come to any decent decision. The moment he opens the door he realizes something isn’t quite right. It’s not that the door was unlocked, that’s not unusual for days he’s due to come over. They’ve discussed it, his preference that she  _not_  do that, her insistence that she  _would_ , at least until her landlord got another key made. (Funny how willing her landlord was to cooperate once he learned she was seeing someone in law enforcement.) 

He slips his duffel off his shoulder, setting it on the floor just inside the door. Normally she’s sitting at the kitchen table with a mug, or reclined on The Comfiest Sofa in Existence… but sometimes not. Sometimes there are bad days, when she’s trying to hide from the trauma determined to catch her. He knows what those days are like, far too well, and today - today seems like it’s a bad day, just from the feel of the place. 

She isn’t an untidy person by any means, but today the smell of solvent hangs in the air. She’s taken to reorganizing, as though that simple act will set right everything else. And if there’s a single dust bunny hiding away somewhere he’d be amazed.

She’s standing there in the middle of the room folding up the blanket they usually use when reclined on the Comfiest Sofa watching movies, barely stopping to acknowledge his arrival.

“Babe?” He tilts his head at her, “Whacha doin?”

Watching her profile, he sees the way her mouth twitches first, just before she manages a reply. “Straightening up!” 

But those two words seem to pull the will to clean out of her, stilling her entirely. As she exhales she turns to fully face him, still keeping the blanket gripped firmly in her hands, though the task of folding it up has been abandoned. 

Her eyes are rimmed in red. Something’s happened. 

She closes her eyes and swallows hard, and then the muscles in her neck seem to bunch and jump, followed by vibrations that shake her frame. She’s losing it, about to crumble and there’s more than half the room between them. 

He rushes towards her, vaulting the sofa to be able to reach her just as she opens her eyes again. No words come out as she stumbles into his arms, the blanket still held tightly to her chest. He stands there, holding her, letting her sob into his jacket. Whatever’d happened during her shift she’ll tell him, when she’s able. For now there’s no interrupting the flow of tears. 

Once she stops shaking with such force, when the hiccups begin to intermittently assert themselves, she seems to be able to catch her breath. It’s only when she rotates against his chest, moving so that he can see her face, that he dares to quietly question her.

A kid. They lost a kid. Hadn’t even gotten him loaded up. Hadn’t been time. 

There wasn’t always time, not that that inescapable fact helped, ever. They continue to stand there even as the room beings to darken around them. They’d need to start dinner preparations soon, or maybe call to get something delivered. Today felt like a delivery day. Most definitely. 

As her hiccups quiet he finally realizes what had initially tipped him off as to the state of the day. Not the solvent, not initially, but…. “Babe. How’d you move the sofa?” 

The monstrosity is no longer hemming the outer edge of the room but shifted to divide the space. He’d had to jump over it to reach her. And, not speaking against her size or strength, but it’s heavy - as all overly large pieces of furniture are. 

He shakes his head, tipping his body slightly to be able to glance at said piece of furniture, “I mean, I get that you moved it. But. How?? The math doesn’t…” 

The laugh that he pulls from her with the question, and the way her body finally releases the last of the tension that she’s been holding, is better than anything else he can think of giving her. And he’s never loved her more. 


	20. Day 20 - handcuffs

There’s  _another_  message from David, another something making his phone buzz in his pants pocket. “Alright.  _Alright_ ,” he mutters, hurrying through the lobby area to make his way up to the seventh floor. His partner is clearly  _very_ ready to be leave the premises, not that he’ll be going back to work any time soon. 

There’s still quite a bit of physio required before he’ll see his partner back, back and seated across the desks from him. It was one of the many complaints he’s heard from David over the past few weeks. That, and missing out on Cherrie’s - David’s third wife - Cherrie’s good loving. David had used a few more colorful words. 

Settled in with a few others that were also headed upwards he pulls his phone from his pocket. Actually  _not_  messages questioning how soon he’ll appear in the doorway of David’s temporary accommodations, but recommendations about what to be wearing when he does.  **DON’T BE WEARING THAT RATTY TRAINING SHIRT AGAIN YOU BUM. COULDA AT LEAST _PRETENDED_  TO BE INTERESTED IN HELPING ME GET BETTER FOOD BY FLIRTING WITH THE TECHS. LEAST YOU CAN DO IS SHOW UP WEARING THE ONE FROM THIS YEAR.**

Visiting after going to the gym, even if it was just between getting off shift and going home, was still visiting. There were one or two occasions when he’d begged off, though. Several times in a row when he learned  _she_  was there visiting, much to David, and Cherrie’s, displeasure.  The wardrobe demands were probably the result of Cherrie’s influence, as were the urges to keep at the dating game until something stuck. They, along with his gran, seemed stuck on the idea that the paramedic that had been on the scene that day was perfect for the job. 

Sucking in a breath through his teeth he glances away from his phone, and the messages from his partner, to cast a critical eye at his attire. His badge hangs at his waist, from the waistband of a pair of tactical pants, cause that was all that was left clean in his bag… that and one of the commemorative shirts from a departmental charity run a few years ago. Wasn’t from this year but it wasn’t his evidently-ratty-yet-oh-so-comfortable shirt from his academy days, either. 

Harrumphing, he taps a quick message back -  **I’LL BE ANOTHER HOUR IN THAT CASE. LAUNDRY RUN.**  

As he exits onto the seventh floor David’s reply arrives -  **NO YOU DON’T. GET ME OUTTA HERE.**

**SURE YOU DON’T WANNA CALL CHERRIE?**

Cherrie would be at work for another few hours. David could just call any number of the squaddies. They’d all probably show up in dress blues, clearly keen to play David’s game of ‘how many numbers can you collect’. 

**GET IN HERE, ASSHOLE**

He’s not at all surprised to hear David entertaining someone as he closes in on his partner’s room. It was another reason he hadn’t felt pressed to flirt with anyone to help David gain any favors. Whatever other flaws he had, the man had game. Simple as that. 

What stops him cold isn’t that David is entertaining anyone. It’s  _who_ he’s entertaining.  **THE**  paramedic. She’d seen him on his worst day, and aside from a blearily delivered thanks on the day itself and starched, repeated words a few days after, he can’t quite figure out what to say to her. According to David, it was simple:  _When a smokin woman keeps asking after you, you stop avoiding her and ask her the fuck out!_

David grins at him, even though his face is still half purple, black, and blue. “And here he is. Late, and fashionable as ever.” 

He cuts his eyes hard at his partner but recomposes his face quickly as she laughs and turns to greet him. His words immediately jumble up in his mouth. “Hey. I. Thank you again for…” 

“I was just doing my job.” She shakes her head, half-laughing as she speaks. 

If he could figure out what else to say to her… to make her laugh, in particular. It’s nice, her laugh. Kinda like her voice. That voice he can’t quite get out of his head, rattling off the state of the scene and the severity of his wounds. 

Her eyes flick towards his left shoulder and he reflexively straightens his posture, which of course makes the still-healing wound protest. He winces, trying to keep himself from reaching up to massage the twinging area. “Well, it was a risk.”

She seems amused by his response, though her face still prominently conveys concern. “Isn’t it always? … You  _are_ taking it easy at the gym, right?” 

“He doesn’t know the meaning of the word,” David interjects.

He casts another sour glare at his partner before giving in and reaching up to press a careful amount of pressure to the spot that had been bloody upon his last encounter with the woman standing a few paces away from him. “Trying to be careful with it, yea.” 

She looks… dubious, her lips pressed together as a momentary frown appears. It’s like she’s fighting against saying something further, and he finds himself desperate to know her thoughts. Instead, she blinks and looks away from him, back in David’s direction. Leaning a little on the railing at the end of the bed, she directs her comments at his partner. “I know the guys - uh - the guys here that took care of you, here. They’re some of the best. You were in good hands.” 

 _Yours -_  he wants to say, to draw her gaze again. But doesn’t. She’s talking about the medical care they received here. Not what she did beforehand. He moves a little closer, also redirecting his attention - both maintaining an awareness as to where she’s standing, but also pretending preoccupation at collecting David’s bag. 

She’s clearly trying to make an exit. He should do his best to aid that action. “Right, then. Ready to go, man?” 

It’s as he’s reaching for David’s bag that he hears the distinct click of metal. It’s a sound very out of place, here in the hospital room, but one he recognizes in an instant. Cuffs? Then comes the hard bite of metal on his wrist, his fingers only just coming into contact with the nylon handle of David’s bag. 

David has handcuffed him -  _them_  - to the bed. No, worse than that.  _To each other **AND**  _the bed. 

He’ll kill him. When he can reach him again. A quick glance at her shows her to be stuck in the stage of confusion. She’ll break through that momentarily and be on the same page, right there with him in indignation and, shortly, ready to move on to problem solving. 

He raises an eyebrow at his partner, only to find David positively gleeful over the situation. “Yep, I am now.” David gives the pair of them a satisfied nod before making his way towards the door, calling back over his shoulder as he hobbles out of view, “I’ll be in the car. Don’t forget my bag.” 

She’s starting to break through her shock. Actually, her tone makes him second guess that initial assessment. She sounds as calm as ever, just like she did when he first met her. She’s been analyzing the situation this entire time. “Do you guys even still use cuffs?” 

“Yea,” his voice sounds a little light, and he clears his throat. “Sure. Sometimes. Mostly zip ties now, though.” And then, to his surprise, he feels the light pressure of her free hand snaking around his waist band. He twists, not quite able to pull himself out of her reach as he swallows, “Um…” 

“You’ve got the keys for these, don’t you?” 

Oh. “Sure.  _In my car._ ”

“No. No no no no no no…” She starts shaking her head, the subsequent repetitions of the word growing softer and softer. Then she looks at him again, wide eyed. “You don’t understand. I  _know_  these guys. If they find out we’re stuck like this… We’ll never hear the end of it. I’m never going to live this down.”


	21. Day 21 - magic

Tired from the journey and the back to back shows he decides not to push his limits. He could get up early in the morning and make it to the next venue by midday. There’d be plenty of time for sound checks and the like. Of course the closest town’s only motel wasn’t much to look at. He didn’t much trust leaving his guitar in the room, so he took it with him to the bar across the street. 

Just cause you were getting up early in the morning didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy a decent helping of greasy food washed down with a glass or two of beer. 

There’s an old fashioned marquee just to the left of the sign above the door, announcing for all those getting off shift but not ready to go home that there’s a band tonight - no cover. 

He expects to turn a few heads, carrying his guitar in with him and propping it against one of the stools before claiming a seat for himself. Nobody really pays him much mind. They were either too focused on the band onstage, on their drinks, or on each other. Only the bartender seems to track his arrival, giving him a short nod and a wave of the hand, the universal motion for ‘ _be with you in a minute, bud’._

As he takes the place in a story starts to surface in his mind, one that only sometimes got told - and the versions were never quite the same. Was about a dive bar. Nobody telling the tall tale ever knew the name of it, just that it couldn’t be called anything but. 

There was always live entertainment. Every single night of the week. Every night somebody new. How they managed the booking, or took a chance on traveling so far to play on a small stage to a half filled room nobody could ever give a straight answer to. Not like those kinds of shows made you a household name.

Except, sometimes, that’s exactly what happened. The name of the singer or band would be up on the marquee that Wednesday night, and by Friday an entire time zone would be buzzing, the musician or group known by name. 

 _Shame_  - he thinks to himself -  _that it isn’t_ his _name up in block letters on the side of the building_. But then, it was just a story, and he didn’t much believe in things like that. It was hard work and due diligence that got you where you were going. If you were meant to make it big, you would. Just needed to be willing to drive from place to place to place and get your name out there. Make people take notice. 

The bartender takes his order, serves him up his beer, and then moves right back down the bar towards the woman he’d been talking to. She’s clearly a regular, only half paying attention to the goings on around her. Every once in awhile she glances at the stage, he notices, and fewer times still her foot will bounce along with the beat.

He watches the band on the stage, too. They’re ok. Nothing to phone home about. Except for once or twice when he gets goosebumps. Which  _could_ just be a draft in the room. Or the beer and exhaustion from being on the road for so long. 

Then the bartender is back, plate of food in hand - and a suggestion. “They’re about due for a break.” A sideways glance at his guitar, “You play, you should go on up for a set.” 

Etiquette says he should decline. Musicians don’t steal each other’s shows. But if the bartender is calling the shots, asking him to entertain the room while the band takes a break… Who is he to say no? 

He’s started to scrunch up his face to hem out an answer when he thinks better of it, giving the other man a short nod. “Alright. I guess - uh - just say when.” 

Before he knows it he’s up on stage, once again marked by a spotlight. A microphone and a stool are all he needs. But the songs? Should he sing a few of his own, or stick to the safety of well-known covers. Considering the crowd… He introduces himself and thumbs out a few notes, fingers searching the chords for something that feels like a good starting point. 

The song selection just kind of comes to him, and for the first few lines of the song he’s not quite sure he’s chosen right. But then the woman at the bar catches his eye, just a quick turn of her head to look at the change in entertainment. 

When he hits the chorus she actually turns to look at the stage, at him. There are a few singing along now, too, so hey - seems like he chose good. Didn’t bore them with something the band already played.

Next song that comes into his head is easy enough to transition into, so he does, his fingers finding the tune almost of their own accord. It’s not a half-bad rendition either, even if it isn’t something he wrote. If it’d been  _his_  name on the side of the building he might’ve felt more comfortable, enough to sing them one of his own songs…

He lets his mind wander as he entertains the room. He knows the song well enough. That story stirs up again. That story he heard… where had he been? Was it a fellow musician, or somebody’s manager that had been playing to everyone’s dreams? 

That’s when he notices the woman smiling at him, the woman at the bar that somehow makes him forget about the rest of the room and only want to sing to her. For her. 

His voice should be coming weaker, rough from so many nights on the road, and cracking or scratching the high notes… But for two songs now he’s hardly felt any strain to his vocal chords.

Another song comes to mind. Just one more before he estimates the band will be rested, watered, and ready to continue with their night. Reclaim their stage. But right now - it’s his. As though she’s heard him, the woman at the bar gives him a little nod. It was his room to command, and a good song to end on. As good as any.

 _You know_  - he thinks to himself, strumming the opening notes -  _maybe it isn’t about playing everywhere you can, but just having one really good night in a place nobody’s ever heard of. Sometimes lightning strikes, a muse finds you, and you’re made._

__


	22. Day 22 - traffic

“Gonna be late." 

It was an observation that he didn’t appreciate being highlighted. Particularly by the one making it. He draws in a deep, controlled breath, exhaling slowly as he turns his head to silently glare at Solomon. 

It was Solomon riding shotgun this trip. Solomon that had chosen the route. Ergo - it was Solomon’s faultthey were currently hemmed in by vehicles. Tinted windows and bulletproof glass aside their current situation was like presenting those who might wish her ill a gift wrapped present. 

Wisely, Solomon keeps his mouth shut, refraining from digging his hole any deeper. 

“Wow, Sol. I think you got Mr. Stoic to blow a little steam out of his ears just then.” 

Her fingertips press into his shoulder where she grips the seat-back of his seat to pull herself part of the way into the space between the two front seats. He barely resists the urge to turn further so that he can issue a glare in her direction, too. But he shakes free of the urge and sits back in the driver’s seat again, facing forward.  He feels doomed to stare at the back of the range rover that hasn’t moved - nowhere to go - for the better part of half an hour. 

Her voice now originates closer to his ear. Clearly she’s unbuckled. “Do us a favor and breathe. We’ll get there when we get there.” 

How reassuring. 

He tips his head down, letting his eyes slide to examine her fingernails, bright against his dark suit, but not allowing his focus to drift further. Dangerous enough, the way she’s sitting. Curves twisted  _just so_. It would be easy to let his resolve slip again, as close as they are. Swallowing, he presses his teeth together for a second, “Please sit back, miss.” 

He can feel the way she’s staring at him but refuses to lift his eyes to meet hers. He waits her out, until she huffs and pushes off his seat, rocking him slightly as she settles into the seat behind him again. “Right,” she says, “So very necessary for how  _fast_ we’re going. How dangerous.” 

He knows what faces she’s making without needing the aid of the rear view mirror to confirm them. He’d laugh about it, snap something right back at her, but after what passed between them on his birthday… He’s trying to keep distinctions clear in his head. 

Instead, he presses his lips together, pursing them before daring to speak, “It’s for your safety, mi–” 

“Sol,” she interrupts, talking over his reply, “You’re the reasonable one. Make him stop calling me that.” 

Solomon, already in the hot seat over the chosen route, knows better than to attempt anything of the sort. He just laughs and shakes his head.


	23. Day 23 - talent

_I wish I had that talent_  - she sighs, staring at the beautiful sketch hanging on the opposite wall.

“Which talent, exactly?”

Blinking, and sputtering maybe just a little, she turns to examine the man who had uttered the question. The – wow – striking man just randomly inserted himself into her morning coffee routine, her morning musings.

He continues, nonplussed by her reaction. A small smile expands across his features in the beat that follows, pulling his pinkish lips away from annoyingly straight teeth. “And which would you give up to have it?”

“What?”

As he lowers himself into the other seat at the table, she becomes acutely aware of just how much coffee she’s had this morning. Her heart is hammering. Plus: coffee breath. It’s to be expected in a coffeehouse but still, she’d much rather flirt with this angular man without – wait. Give up?

He shifts his shoulders to better align himself to their newfound conversation. “Give up. Yes. Give one to get one. That’s sort of the way these things work. Nothing for free.”

She finds herself nodding, though she doesn’t quite understand. Well, she understands everything having a price.

“For example,” he flexes his fingers in a rolling motion quite similar to the way one might entertain a centipede crawling over their digits. “Being able to re-energize from a few minutes spent sitting and enjoying a warm liquid. Or devote a period of time to translating what one feels to paper and stir the emotions of others as result, as the artist of that piece has done.”

“But… those aren’t talents.” She hazards a reply while he’s glancing back at the artwork that she’d been admiring. Had she been that blatantly obvious while admiring it? “Those are just…  traits…”

The protestation dies when he looks back at her, giving her a firm shake of his head. “Talents. Trust me on that. But don’t worry,” he leans forward, the action at once conspiratorial and predatory, “there are hundreds within you. You simply need to choose which you’d like to exchange for another.”

He waits, wanting her to answer to fill the gap he’s left. “The ability to…” she muses, but then laughs at herself. It’s silly. She knows it takes years of practice. One can’t very well say: the talent of Michelangelo! But… so long as one is careful in how they say it… She darts her eyes beyond him, gaze settling on sketch on the wall. “The patience to get as good?”

His smile remains the same, but there’s a slight sparkle in his eyes when he asks her, “In exchange for?”

Now there’s a question. What talents did she possess? What would she give up? Time to stall, and think. “Would they – she – did you see the name of the artist written somewhere or… never mind. Would it be, I don’t know, would they get mine, and I get theirs?”

That makes him stop smiling long enough to laugh. It’s a delightful laugh, one that warms her in dangerous places. The  _intensity_  of his focused joy is what does it.  _She’d_  made him laugh like that. But – had it really been all that funny?

He shakes his head, a chuckle still rumbling his torso when he replies, “No.”

Oh. But he had said it was an exchange. She’s not sure how to feel about taking something from someone and not giving something back in return. But then… how did the exchange work, then? Hadn’t he said… She glances sidelong at the artwork. How  _badly_  did she want to be able to draw like that? Uncertainty grips her, and she draws out her response. If she doesn’t continue to play along will he just get up and leave, as abruptly as he sat down? “I, I don’t know.”

“Hmm.” When she looks to him again he is appraising her, eyes hooded. “So many you don’t use. Or hardly use.”

What does that mean.

Arching an eyebrow, he continues to study her, “I’d love to test a few. But we can get to that, after…”

Again she feels a thrill run through her, the quiet whispers for  _caution_  ebbing away as he focused on her. There were several hundred promises in his manner, and his words. She shifts in her seat while entertaining the thought of every last one of them.

That sharp, otherworldly smile has reappeared, and he has edged closer to her. He’s now almost perched on the edge of his chair, “Let’s see which talent you volunteer, first.”


	24. Day 24 - wallflower

Your roommate had tried to talk you into signing up for the dance class, too, but you’d insisted you had other obligations. Sometimes ‘other obligations’ meant reading, or simply enjoying the quiet. Sometimes it meant watching tv… or watching the backs of your eyelids. You know, obligations. 

Tonight, though, you’ve been talked into playing chauffeur. Rather than drop your roommate off at the studio and waste gas driving around until the class was over, also losing that prime parking spot out front, you’ve opted to sit in on the dance class.

Like your roommate, there are more than a few people who seem to have brought a change of clothes for the class. A few of the attendees simply change shoes after arriving, leaving their bags stuffed under the chairs that line the walls. The chairs aren’t exactly comfortable, but then that wasn’t their purpose. They were meant for short spurts of sitting. Which - so long as the class doesn’t run long - is all you’ll be requiring, anyway. 

Shortly before the class is to begin the instructor arrives, a small cluster of students in his wake. It’s a little amusing to see from a distance, the way most of the room preens while pretending it isn’t for his benefit, your roommate included. You snicker quietly to yourself, watching the wave effect of his headcount, right up until his focus circles the room and he does a double take at the unexpected additional body. 

His eyebrows perform an interesting little dance, “Hello. Um. Joining us for the night?” 

It’s always the moment you let your guard down that things like this happen. Also, you’re seated while the rest of the class is standing waiting for him to glance their way? How might this be construed as joining the class? You shake your head, looking away from his boy-next-door looks to focus on your empty hands - where had you put your phone? - and then at the chairs on either side of you, “I’m just. Watching. Supervising.” You allow your gaze to be pulled right back to him, finding him a few steps closer, “I’m good.” 

Rather than allow them the intricate dance they’d previously performed, he simply lifts his eyebrows at your answer. “Ah. Ok, then.” 

If he kicks you out you’ll have to figure out something to do with yourself. Ugh. 

To your surprise, and delight, he offers a half shrug and a nod, “Suit yourself. Welcome to the class, all the same.”

And with that he turns on his heel and calls everyone to attention. 

You almost think that’ll be the end of it. You couldn’t be that lucky. 

Not ten minutes later, when you think they’ve all but forgotten about the person sitting on the outskirts of the room, he pauses his explanation and turns to you, putting his hands on his hips. “Wallflower? Could you help for a minute?” 

Say what now. 

“We’re a man down. Jasmine needed a study night. Two minutes to help demonstrate?” 

 “Oh, no. No I’m just here to watch.” To sit, really. Watching was happening as an unintended result. 

“Two minutes.” He crosses his chest with his index finger, hopefully not intending on aiming for his heart. He’d missed. “And then I’ll release you to the chairs to supervise again. Promise.” 

You cave rather than continue to hold up the class. That’s twice now you’ve gained his sole attention. You’re already getting a few soured glares. 

Whether you want to admit it or not, you’ve been listening to your roommate’s accounts of each class, and have been following along with the class tonight up until being pulled in from the sidelines. It’s easy enough to follow along with his instruction. 

Two minutes pass in a heartbeat and the pair of you are still dancing, which only means that in addition to wondering about his knowledge of anatomy, you start to worry about his concept of time. 

“Loosen up.” 

“What?” You’ve been listening to his instruction of his students– that low timbre stream of words in such close proximity. You thought his attention had gone elsewhere so you’d let your mind wander as he led the pair of you – stepping with practiced motions – through the couples. He isn’t supposed to be focusing on you. You’re not a paying student.

“Your hips. Loosen them up.” He removes his hand from your shoulder blade to drop it down to settle on the curve of your hip, guiding your body along with the steps. “And stop trying to lead. That’s my job.”

 


	25. Day 25 - keys

Something in the predawn of your bedroom tells you not to roll over and go back to sleep, but to prop yourself up on your elbows and reach for your phone. It wasn’t that you’d heard a notification. It’s on silent. Was it something from your dream bleeding through into reality? What was it you had been dreaming, anyway? It’s hazy, at best, and slipping further away as you try to grasp at it. 

One glance at your phone makes you curse, something sharp in the quiet of the early morning. It’s barely 5 and there’s a message to you from work, received not a minute before. They can’t find keys to get into the building. Can you please come let everyone in? 

There’s a groan in response from the lanky man beside you, but other than that he doesn’t seem to register or care about your distress - or even that you’re awake, honestly. The pair of you had stayed up celebrating the fact that you’d be taking a few days off to spend with him. 

Staycation! Woooo! 

Except you’re still awake - not quite at stupid o’clock, but close - and dealing with work things. Exhaling as you bring yourself upright, you type a response back, confirming you saw the message and assuring them that you’d be on the way. Staycation or no, you don’t think you could assuage the guilt over leaving them standing around waiting for the next keyholder to arrive. 

You hastily pull on a pair of sweatpants and a light hoodie. It’s cold out but you’ll be in transit. It’ll be warm enough… Bedhead Fabulousa and sleep creases displayed on all exposed areas of skin, you begin the journey towards your job. 

Damn being a responsible adult. Damn being the one they tried to contact. Damn early mornings in general. 

Halfway there your phone pings again. 

Never mind! Keys found! All is well.

All is well. You’re up, and already halfway there. But hey. Keys found and they’re no longer needing you to appear… that’s good. Grumbling blearily, you begin the process of making your way back home. This was a good thing. This  _is_  a good thing. Nobody save for strangers need see your current state - strangers, save for the man you left sleeping in the warmth of the covers… the man  _still_ curiously log-like when you reenter the bedroom. 

Peeling out of your additional layers and shucking your shoes by the bedside, you crawl back into the space you’d vacated, almost certain that all the warmth previously enjoyed will have leeched away. 

You’re about right. Plus there’s the added bonus that your hoodie hadn’t quite kept your hands as warm as you’d like them to be. Smiling to yourself you roll towards the lightly-snoring occupant of the bed, knowing  _just_  how to warm your digits once more.  


	26. Day 26 - lie

He told himself he was over it and went to lunch. 

          He thought about what she’d order from the menu. How she’d deliberate between choosing the safe, usual option, or trying something new. 

He told himself he was over it on the walk home. 

          He found himself accompanied by memories of them walking down those very streets. It wasn’t his intention to divert through the park, either, and think about the way the landscape had changed. He didn’t want to miss her hand in his, the reassuring weight of her presence - gone. 

He told himself he was over it as he unlocked the front door. 

          He had a list of chores to be done, busy tasks to kept his mind from wandering too much, to even pause long enough to think of her. One task leading into the next to the next to the next. But then the house was clean again and the thoughts of her returned in the ever present silence. Even while music was playing, he heard it, the absence of her. Instead of the music, meant to distract, he heard the absence of her background vocals, or the snippets of verse she knew and would repeat when it came to a part she didn’t. 

He told himself he was over it as the sun set and he readied himself for bed, scowling at his reflection in the mirror. 

          But he lied.


	27. Day 27 - revenge

**S** he said yes. Ryan said yes when he  _finally_ asked, dropping down on one knee on the deck one evening, sunset over the lake serving as the backdrop. They’d supped with Tori, Gordon, and the newest addition to the clan - little Nate - and then took Houdini for a walk. It had been the perfect evening, exactly what he had been waiting for since getting the stones from his mother’s ring fitted into the setting he’d designed for Ryan. 

The pre-wedding jitters he experienced weren’t entirely unexpected. He remembered how nervous his sister was when she married Gordon, and how hard Gordon’s hands had shaken while trying to place their mother’s wedding band on Tori’s finger. 

He  _also_  remembered what had happened after the ceremony. How Tori had taken off down the dock - keen to celebrate with a jump in the lake, and how Gordon had simply shrugged and sprinted after her. The cleaners had valiantly attempted to return the dress to its original white, but it ended up being stored away slightly tinted. 

With that in mind, he and Ryan had decided on keeping their wedding further away from the water. (Also making the troublesome pair promise to stay well away from the water’s edge.) But somehow - and though he couldn’t prove it Tom’s almost sure it was at Gordon’s suggestion - the photographer got it into his head that ‘the happy couple should get their picture taken down near the lake!’ 

‘The reflection. The gorgeous setting! What is the point of having a wedding so close to a lake without having at least *one* photo of the newlyweds close to or -  **OH**  -  _on_  the water?’

Which is how they ended up in the rowboat. 

One minute they were listening to instructions - “Ryan if you’d turn your head a little to the right? Lovely. Yes. Perfect.” - and - “Tom, she’s your wife, not a cookie. Stop drooling, please.”

They stood together in the boat, gripping each other’s hands tightly as they tried to maintain their balance, grinning and giggling… and then… then Tom realized that the instructions had stopped. 

Standing next to the photographer, and breaking the promise they’d made, were Tori and Gordon… Tori smiling and waving, the ever familiar self satisfied grin plastered on his sister’s face. And Gordon - his best friend - Gordon’s leaning on…. 

The boat starts to sway as Tom jerks, glancing down into the bottom of the rowboat that his sister has un-moored. 

The oars. Gordon has them. 

Swindled. Conned. Betrayed! 

“Seriously?” Tom calls out, causing the boat to lurch again, “We’ve got a flight to catch!” 

Gordon shrugs, “In a few hours!” 

Catching on to the situation, Ryan laughs. “They’re insane… They’re.” They’re family, now. She gives Tom’s hand a squeeze, pulling his attention back to her, “You - you knew they were gonna pull something. You called it. Better this than mess with your truck, right?” 

Tom nods, first addressing her but then raising his voice towards the end of his reply and turning to address the amused onlookers. “Yes. You’re right, but they’d still better FIGURE OUT HOW TO GET US TO SHORE.” 

“You’ve got legs.” Tori shouts back, “Swim!” 

It’s a hell of a situation, but it could be worse. Tom starts to peel out of his jacket, trying hard to keep from jostling the boat too much and tipping his wife overboard. That’s probably exactly what Tori and Gordon had in mind. 

“Oh Tom,” Ryan’s mirth, even though she’s trying to hide it, can’t be suppressed. “You don’t… Someone will take pity on us eventually.” 

He can’t stop shaking his head in short disbelieving movements, even as he starts to catch the giggles that seem to have engulfed her. He sets to work rolling up his shirtsleeves - to catcalls from shore - though it’s more a stalling tactic than having a particular point. Maybe he should just strip down to his undershirt and boxers, better entertain their family and friends, and keeping his suit dry and mostly clean…  “This lot? I doubt it…” 

Ryan wobbles again as Tom lowers himself down to start working at removing his shoes. After a light chirp of alarm she regains herself, gripping his steadying hand hard, and tips her head down to murmur to him, “Babe?” She leans a little closer, pretending to request a kiss. “Nate is getting every noise making toy we can find until he’s twenty. Agreed?”

Laughing, he nods, raising himself up to plant a quick kiss on those devilish lips of hers.  


	28. Day 28 - illuminate

 

He half expected this. The silent treatment after their date night got interrupted. Not just any date night, but the anniversary of when they'd started dating. (They tended not to celebrate the fact that he’d gotten shot. Just when they’d finally gotten together a month and change later.) Still. It wasn't like her not to respond.

Worry starting to buzz in the back of his mind he heads to her place. He’ll just swing by and apologize again for the interruption to their night... almost a full 24 hours ago, now. They’ve always had an understanding between them regarding their respective jobs, and the hours they demanded, the  _attention_  they demanded. This relationship can’t be falling back into the same old patterns of all the ones before. Not with her.

Hell, she’d sent coffee to the station to make sure they had something decent to keep them fueled through the night! This is just... just a dead battery. Except that it isn’t sending him straight to voicemail. 

But when he pulls into the lot of her complex her car isn’t there. He circles once, twice, just to make sure. It isn’t just that someone temporarily parked in her slot, forcing her to park elsewhere. Her car isn’t here. 

Meaning she isn’t here. 

Had she, too, been called in? Racking his brain, he can’t remember her mentioning any potential changes to her rotation. He’s tired after working through the evening and then his normal shift, but not that tired. She had the day off today. She  _should_ be here. Not that she owed him details about her whereabouts at all hours but they usually kept each other notified, all the same. 

Worry starting to fester into something harder, he dials her number again, looping the lot one last time. Perhaps, somehow, this tired detective just happened to miss the relocation of her vehicle. 

Still no answer. 

Still no silver car. 

One concerned voicemail later he starts for home. He’s about to call her again as he turns down his side street, intending on leaving a deliberately detailed voicemail about getting off shift and going home to sleep for the next umpteen hours when he spies a familiar silver car parked in his visitor’s space. 

Ok. So she’s here. Which makes no sense no matter how you frame it. Her place was closer to the station, where they’d parted. Obviously there hadn’t been any way of telling when he’d be home again. But she’s here. Here, but not answering his calls. 

Which means she’s mad. Or something’s wrong. 

After he parks he circles her car, looking for anything amiss, the simple fact that he’s  _doing so_  absolutely killing him. If something had happened to her... why did his brain always link up with the worst possible outcome? Because of what he did all day. That’s why. 

Half ready to pounce on anything that so much as twitches he makes his way to his front door - and is greeted by silence. So her car is here but she isn’t? She’s been here. It smells of her, or maybe that’s just in his head. What’s not in his head is that there’s a bottle of water and something to eat set out for him on the kitchen table that had not been there before they left for their date. Her gentle reminder that he needs to remember to take care of himself, long shifts be damned, only makes the situation  _worse_. 

Where is she?!

Jabbing at the screen of his phone again he auto-redials her number, his heart lurching when a dim light illuminates his darkened bedroom. Her phone is sitting on the nightstand where she always puts it. He’d called out when he came in the door, didn’t he? Maybe not. Though he certainly hadn’t been quiet about his arrival. Surely, if she was here, she’d be up and investigating. 

But then he makes out her form among the bed sheets, sleeping as haphazardly - or as hazardously to one’s bed partner - as she always does. Emitting a light laugh of relief he is at the bed in an instant, bending to kiss her awake. 

Only then does she stir, reaching beyond him to touch the bedside lamp and illuminate the room once more. 


End file.
